Blood Lust
by AngelSyn
Summary: Sacred Stones. Valter. No pairing. A small piece on how Valter transformed into the 'Moonstone'. Based on the A support between Cormag and Duessel.


**Rated:** T

**Note:** Based on the A support conversation between Cormag and Duessel.

**Completed:** Somewhere in the early hours of the morning. Tired. Very tired.

**Comment:** Don't know what to feel about this one, except that I must look like I had some weird childhood. I will probably revise some of it if I think it is worth my time.

* * *

**Blood-Lust**

By AngelSyn

When Renais fell, she fell to her knees and then some, her king perishing in Grado's conquest over her, and her very children, man, woman, and child, would be lucky if they lived through this period in history unscathed. The unlucky ones wouldn't, and those who were truly unlucky fell to Valter's lance, eyes filled with chilling madness accompanied with that depraved, sadistic grin of satisfaction.

Valter had been no gentle lamb before; he acquired a disturbing taste for violence early in his life, and for his brutality, which made him efficient at the dirty jobs, he soon rose through the ranks of Grado's army. Of course, he had many warnings through his ascension in the ranks, for some pathetic reason or another, like violently removing someone out of his way.

Ah, but that lance, that tainted lance that General Duessel carried with him but never used.

That lance sung to Valter from the very edges of his mind, and many times he had caught himself staring at it. The first time he had seen it, a shiver went down his spine and the hairs on his skin prickled and stood on end. It was finely made, beautifully so, yet held such a dark and foreboding air. The metal glinted impossibly cold, and the wood looked like it would cause your skin to blister with frost bite; it was in everyway tainted beauty.

In some way, twisted but logical, it was seducing him.

Then one day, Valter and General Duessel, with a small group of men, were caught in a skirmish against a small military company of soldiers from Jehanna, on north-eastern border between the two nations.

They were out-numbered, even though they were excellent fighters, and their strength was waning since they had been through a whole day worth of marching. Valter flew circles over the battlefield, his wyvern screaming its war cry, felling all that were foolish to try and fight him. Duessel was also doing well, but looked up when he heard the unmistakeable sound of snapping metal.

Valter sneered and chucked the broken weapon to one side and was about to call out to the general for another, when it silently sung to him more clearly than ever.

His eyes fell on the lance, and his hunger for battle seemed to be more apparent in him than any other time in his life, reaching new heights, urging him to take the lance and rain hell upon the fighters of the battlefield; to spill blood and see its beautiful colour wash over skin; to see their eyes dilate and lose their solid colour, like the physical representation of life draining out of their flesh; and perhaps, to even feel the final pulsing of their hearts through the shaft of his spear.

Oh, how that lance sung to him and how his hunger responded.

Before the soldiers of Jehanna, or even Duessel himself, could understand what was going on, Valter was killing mercilessly, his face twisted by a wicked smile that fed on the pain of whoever was unlucky to be within his reach.

The thrill. The energy. The hunger. The desire… no, the _lust_ that coursed through his body was like ecstacy.

Never had Valter felt more alive. This feeling, this passion!

How he never wanted it to end.

But end it did.

Valter looked around the battlefield, willing there to be another retreating back, another half-alive lump of flesh, or better yet a fighter, so he could work and fight to have the gratification to see them gasp and try to breathe, and to see the moment when their eyes would widen and move no more.

But also to _feel_ the moment, when his prey was defeated and all life left their shell.

When Duessel firmly pulled the lance from Valter's hand, it caused Valter's attention to fix itself upon the general with a light that deeply disturbed Grado's Obsidian. The light that played around the lance's head was now reflected in Valter's eyes, like the morbidly fascinating light that reflected off fresh blood.

The skirmish had not been a skirmish for long: it was a massacre.

From that day, the hunger was endless. And Valter willingly slaved for its satisfaction.

The obsession ate away at the very last pieces of his sanity and reason, and therefore the fetters to his acquired taste for violence. Forever would it constantly call him, whether in sleep or conscious mind.

It was his master, his lover, his sole purpose to strive and grow stronger.

His love was tainted, for in his heart, there was only blood-lust.


End file.
